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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255959">through and through</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequestering/pseuds/sequestering'>sequestering</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Established Relationship, Hotel X - Ensemble, M/M, POV Outsider, but especially the pens and the flyers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:34:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,332</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequestering/pseuds/sequestering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"What?" Sandra asks irritably, still trying to stop the tears smudging her mascara.</p><p>Aya ignores her tone. "Big news from housekeeping," she says dramatically. "The Flyers captain has been sneaking in a lover."</p><p>(or: half a playoffs worth of bubble nonsense)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sidney Crosby/Claude Giroux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>217</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>through and through</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This isn't accurate to the playoffs*, to Hotel X, or to anything at all really. It's just holiday fluff.</p><p>  <span class="small">*The major difference is that the Pens make it past the qualifiers but don't play the Flyers. Maybe they were seeded lower or something. Please suspend your disbelief.</span></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>They break the brand new, top-of-the-line HockeyShot room three hours after arrival.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Sorry, sorry," says the smiling Russian whose nametag identifies him as a Capital. Samsonov, Sandra thinks, although she can't be sure. She'd never paid much attention to hockey. "We're more careful," he promises with big, round eyes.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra pastes on an appropriately apologetic smile. "No, I apologise. We were assured the equipment was top of the range," she says. "I'll send maintenance over, and we'll aim to have it up and running again as soon as possible."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Samsonov looks at her doubtfully. "Is very busted."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She mentally winces. "We'll see what we can do."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He wanders off to the elevators, still looking a little abashed.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The moment he's out of range, Aya leans over and starts snickering. "So much for unbreakable," she laughs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra groans, dropping her head into her hands and bashing her forehead on the plastic shielding over her nose. "Maintenance is gonna pitch a fit," she moans. "Those took days to install."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"There's been a broken bed on Floor 10, too," Aya adds.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"A broken bed?" Sandra asks, looking up.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Yup, Room 309. He says he sat on it and the frame came off. To be fair, guy's the size of a small tank."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra shakes her head. "They've been here for three hours. Three hours."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Gonna be a fun two months, huh," cackles Aya.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra has worked at Hotel X for over a year now. In that time, they've hosted any number of famous sports teams. It's fun; makes for a nice change to business as usual, and gets her some good stories to tell at parties, but the celebrity-factor soon wears off.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Mostly the players are just like regular guests. Some tip generously, some are rude and dismissive, some hit on the cleaning staff, some make bizarre requests for bowls of guava juice to be delivered to steam rooms. Business as normal basically.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There's a big difference, it turns out, between hosting one team for a week and whatever this is.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The anti-covid precautions are hard enough; constant nose-swabs, two different 'wellness desks', and enough security that the place is starting to feel like a very luxurious prison. Then there's their guests, the five intensely competitive teams whose day job is to beat each other senseless over a rubber puck.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>And now they're in 24/7 lockdown together.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It starts chaotic, but actually more manageable than they'd expected. It's a lot of questions and a lot of logistics.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There's painfully polite, painfully tall Zdeno Chara wanting a list of all the vegan places that'll deliver to the hotel; a steady stream of younger players with Wi-Fi issues; a squabbling trio of Flyers who want to switch rooms; and Brayden Point whose name Sandra is never going to forget after he needs to be delivered three new keycards in three days.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They get a weird number of questions about fly-fishing, too.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You're sure there's no fly-fishing round here?" asks a Bruin, something Krug. She can't make out his first name.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra avoids making eye contact with Aya, who's discretely marking another tally on their chart. If it gets past fifteen then Sandra's doing the half-hourly sanitising of the front desk for the next week.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm afraid there's no fly-fishing accessible from within the bubble," she says, trying her best to project sympathy. "We do have a wide range of leisure options, including squash, tennis, access to the BMO Field, and much more."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He shakes his head sadly. "Thanks anyway," he mumbles, before heading back towards the elevators.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra watches him go. "What is it with the fly-fishing?" she asks bemused.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There's a distracted hum from Aya. "Maybe it's code for something. They all think you're dealing."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra rolls her eyes and goes back to sorting tomorrow's testing schedule.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Hotel staff talk. Under normal circumstances, a guest walks into the lobby and by the time they reach their room, the maid knows if they tipped the doorman. It's not that they don't look after the lower tippers, but if there's someone throwing around hundred dollar bills, well, they're not going to be kept waiting.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>These aren't normal circumstances, but the talk's still there.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Apparently Ovechkin tips big, but only in front of his buddies," Aya whispers after a lunchbreak spent with the waitstaff.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The loud Russian Capital?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Aya nods. "That's the one. And Bergeron on the Bruins— tall, stubbly—"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"They're all tall," Sandra whines.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Aya glares at her. "I'll point him out to you some time. Anyway, he's very popular. Gave Glenn twenty-five percent yesterday."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Guess I'll be rooting for the Bruins then."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Ugh," Aya groans, turning back to her computer in disgust. "You're actually the worst. Please just support the Leafs like a normal person."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra grins smugly and adjusts her Sky Blue mug. "Nah, fuck 'em."</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The next gossip that comes through is rather more exciting. Sandra arrives into work on Tuesday and, even while her eyes are still smarting from the nose swab, Aya wheels her chair over and starts gesturing for her to move closer.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"What?" Sandra asks irritably, trying to stop the tears smudging her mascara. She keeps meaning to buy some proper waterproof stuff but never manages to get round to it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Aya ignores her tone. "Big news from housekeeping," she says dramatically. "The Flyers captain has been sneaking in a lover."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh c'mon," Sandra snorts. "How can you possibly know that?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Julia says the state of the room was very revealing," Aya says with a meaningful look.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>That's fair actually. Julia has considerable experience in guessing what the occupants of a room have been up to. No one envies her for it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"So," Aya continues. "We're all on unofficial look-out for any illicit lady friends." She punctuates the last words with enthusiastically waggling eyebrows.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra eyes her sceptically. "You might not have noticed, but some of these guys aren't exactly the pinnacle of heterosexuality," she says. "It might just be a bit of healthy intra-bubble romance."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Yesterday, they'd watched a pair of Caps link hands, touch foreheads and stare into each other's eyes for nearly two minutes. Then there'd been the group of Bruins who'd been giving out very enthusiastic ass slaps on their way to the buses.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"They might not even be gay," Sandra continues. "It might be some kind of straight mutual masturbation thing. I swear guys are always doing that stuff."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There's a beat of silence before Aya hunches over, giggling manically. "Straight mutual masturbation," she gasps out. "What kind of guys do you hang out with?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra shrugs. She's worked in high-end hotels long enough to know that young, rich men can be weird as hell.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Well, whatever the case, illicit lovers or mutual masturbation," Aya says, still sniggering. "Just keep an eye out, okay. I don't want to get furloughed because some horny hockey player can't keep it in his pants for a few weeks."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>So yeah, Sandra highly doubts there's any bubble-breaking going on. Even if there is, she doubts even more that she and Aya would be useful in spotting it - what kind of moron sneaks an illegal hook-up in through the lobby?</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Still, should the bubble go wrong, she's out on furlough pay. Given how many millions of dollars the hotel has poured into this, should the bubble go badly wrong, she may not even have a job to come back to. If there's a possibility that a player is sneaking someone in or engaging in illicit dalliances, she has a pretty vested interest in keeping an eye out.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Aya," Sandra says suddenly. "Which one is the Flyers captain?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Aya shakes her head and mutters something probably unflattering under her breath.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>It doesn't take long to identify Flyers captain Claude Giroux. That's because his team is a nightmare.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"A standard HDMI cable?" says Sandra, scribbling a note as she speaks. "We can get one of those sent up to you in—"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Ah," interrupts the Flyer whose ID card labels him as a J Farabee. "Not standard. Do ya have any that are, like, really long?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra pauses. Shenanigans warning bells are ringing in her head. "How long were you hoping for?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He pauses, clearly realising that this is maybe not the most normal of requests. "Um," he begins. "Ten metres?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra gives a very long mental sigh. There does not exist a single legitimate use for a ten metre HDMI cable, especially not in a hotel room half that size.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Because she's a damn professional, she represses that and gives him a sunny smile. "I'll drop maintenance a note and see what they've got. Do you want to leave your room number?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Later that evening, they hear from housekeeping that the Flyers rookies had removed the TVs from three rooms to build one mega gaming room. Sandra isn't quite sure what they'd intended with the HDMI cable, but she's pretty sure they won't be needing it anymore.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Instead, she sends round another all-player reminder about the dangers of socialising in personal rooms. It's the fourth so far. Sandra feels like management may be fighting a losing battle on this one.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>To Farabee's credit, next time he's passing through the lobby he stops by to pass his apologies on to housekeeping. Then he returns to the nose-swab queue where he's received with an affectionate-looking smack to the back of the head from an older Flyer.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"That's the captain," hisses Aya, inclining her head subtly in the direction of the older one. That makes sense. He has the same long-suffering air that Sandra associates with her friends who have toddlers.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then she realises why Aya's identified him. "Mr Illicit Lover?" she asks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The very same."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Huh," says Sandra. He doesn't seem the type.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>What turns out to be far more entertaining than keeping an eye out for trespassers, is keeping an eye out for what the hotel euphemistically calls "escalating tensions". Basically, if it looks like punches are going to start flying, they call security.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>For the first week or so that hadn't really been a concern, it's only when the games start, the ones that matter, that the tensions seep into hotel living. Their desk has a great view of the lobby and the elevators so Sandra and Aya have front-row seats to the whole thing. They spend a few days on a hair trigger, keeping a wary finger on the security buzzer as players trickle in and out of the lobby on their way to the buses.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There are a few yelling matches.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Hey," shouts a large Bruin at an even larger Capital  - Wilson, Sandra thinks. Aya is not a fan of that one. "Fuck you, buddy"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh, fuck off back the A," snaps Wilson.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They walk past each other glaring daggers, hands flexing viciously.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>In the end though, far from the line brawls Sandra'd been led to expect, it's mostly just deeply, hilariously awkward. There's a lot of taking the stairs to avoid the elevator, giving each other comically wide berths, and carefully avoiding eye contact.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She and Aya make a game out of pointing out the best scenarios as they arise.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Top of the list so far is the loud Flyer, something Konecny, running into a group of around ten Penguins players in the lobby. Aya had elbowed Sandra hurriedly under the desk, and she'd looked up just in time to see Konecny, half a foot shorter than most of the Penguins, nod and cheerfully say, "Hey, pigeons." as he passed them towards the buses. At least two of the Penguins looked downright murderous, but to their credit no one moved to follow him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The players who actually like each other are almost as funny. There's an intimidatingly large Capital with an enormous beard, who knows just about every player he passes and will stop to say hi to them all. His accompanying teammates stand around uncertainly, looking like nothing so much as big kids who just want their mom to stop chatting and take them home.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>So if Sandra begins to pay more attention to player interactions than is probably strictly professional, she can't exactly be blamed. Between the bubble-demanded overtime and the lockdown-demanded lack of socialising, she's pretty stuck for quality entertainment.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She perks up and flicks Aya when a bus delay leaves a small group of Flyers and Pens awkwardly hanging around in the lobby together. She doesn't think they've played each other yet so there's unlikely to be any real aggression, just the delicious awkwardness of not knowing what to do with each other.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Disappointingly, nothing really happens. A pair of goalies wander over to each other and appear to have a friendly conversation. That's not a surprise. All the goalies seem to get on pretty well. Maybe it's because they all commandeer the hotel's hot yoga room every morning, making peaceful co-existence mandatory. Maybe it's because they don't interact much on the ice. Maybe they're just weird like that.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>One of Pens, who Sandra recognises from unwilling over-exposure as Sidney Crosby, breaks off and moves over toward Giroux. Again though, it seems amicable, the pair leaning comfortably into each other's space and smiling.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>By Sandra's side, Aya yawns and visibly re-focuses on her spreadsheet. One of the teams is likely to be moving out in a week so that's a brand new logistical nightmare to manage. Sandra should probably be dealing with that too, but it's late, and the players are noisy, and it's much easier just to people-watch quietly as the minutes trickle down to the end of her shift.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A trainer comes into the room, announcing that the bus has arrived, and the Pens players begin to trail out of the hotel. Crosby is one of the last to leave, knocking Giroux affectionately on the shoulder before he turns to follow his team.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Giroux watches him leave, still smiling.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Perhaps they've played together. Or just played against each other long enough to become friendly. It must be a weird old life, knowing someone so long from the opposite side of a rink.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The first set of games is finished on a Sunday.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra knows this because Aya checks the Leafs game every thirty seconds for three hours. Then she lets out a strangled moan, slumps forward into her crossed arms, and promptly speed-runs through four stages of grief.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Why are they like this?" she moans. "Why am I like this?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra pats her gently on the back and makes what she hopes are sympathetic noises.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Every year, every damn year," Aya repeats, voice cracking alarmingly. "I get my hopes up, and every year they let me down."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Privately Sandra agrees, but she's also smart enough to know that saying so will not make her popular. She keeps up the shoulder rubbing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>On the plus side, a few hours later the Pens eke out a win over the Habs which means that, miraculously, the hotel won't be spending the rest of the weekend dealing with a full team changeover.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It also means that half the teams in the hotel are celebrating. Sandra watches the players disembark from the buses, joyous shouts bouncing off the walls of the lobby and down the hotel's corridors, and is very glad she's not on-duty that evening.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>She and Aya end up staying around anyway and sneaking into SkyBar for drinks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Normally they wouldn't be allowed at the bar while the guests are around. Hell, normally Sandra wouldn't want to be anywhere the guests on her time off. But the draconian guidelines for bubbled employees mean they don't have a whole lot of alternatives, and the bar staff are sympathetic enough to turn a blind eye.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It's been a long month, okay. Sandra thinks they deserve a treat, and Aya certainly doesn't disagree.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They tuck themselves into one of the corner nooks, a little removed from the chaos of the players in the centre of the bar. Aya orders them a cocktail jug and then embarks on a semi-coherent play-by-play of exactly why the Leafs could-have, should-have won, and how they'll do exactly the same thing next year.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Because Aya is a good friend and has listened patiently to many hours of soccer talk, Sandra refrains from rolling her eyes and makes attentive noises of agreement. Mostly, she looks out through the great panelled windows that line the bar. She's been up to the roof before, but she doesn't think she'll ever tire of the view, the lights of Toronto stretching out before them, and the twinkling reflections dancing in the lake.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"You know, this really is an amazing view," she says, when Aya's rant quietens to a bleak silence.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"It's not so bad," agrees Aya mournfully. She's not looking at the windows, appears to be watching the players in the middle of a particularly rowdy push-up contest. Sandra's not so good at identifying them without nametags, but she's pretty sure that's the Penguins captain refereeing for a group of Bruins with a tall Flyer taking bets on the winner.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra elbows her. "Don't even think about it."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Aya snorts and shoves her back. "As if," she says. "Anyway, I'm in mourning, at least let me enjoy the scenery."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They end up drinking a bit more than is sensible. It's just nice to spend time together outside of work, or as outside as they can get at the moment. Nice to be able to get tipsy on terrible cocktails, gossip about their co-workers, and break down into irrepressible giggles at bad jokes. They don't get a lot of chances for that these days.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The players around them get progressively more rambunctious as the evening progresses, coming in partially-clothed and dripping wet from the rooftop pool area and engaging in increasingly competitive games of strip ping pong. By the time they're down to boxers, Aya and Sandra decide it's time to make a departure.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They sneak into the elevator, and exchange long-suffering looks when they're promptly joined by a collection of high-spirited and drunken Penguins. Sandra winces as a pair tumble into the elevator walls; she's not sure whether they're wrestling or hugging, but it looks fairly affectionate. A few older players follow the rookies, bickering good-naturedly about someone cheating at cards.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They're still arguing when the elevator jerks to a stop at the Pens floor, and the players stumble out, the wrestling pair toppling into the thick carpet. Sandra catches Aya's eye, and has to bite her lip to stop herself bursting out laughing.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Crosby, looking marginally less drunk than his teammates, doesn't move from where he's leaning against the elevator wall. Nor does one of the drunken rookies.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There's a guffaw from a large Russian, who reaches back into the elevator and tugs the rookie out by his collar. "No, no," he laughs. "Not want stay here."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Wha— whabout Sid?" mumbles the rookie as he's towed away, looking forlornly back at Crosby.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Hot date," yells back another player gleefully.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Crosby flushes, somewhere between smug and drunk, and grins broadly. That prompts a few groans from his teammates before the doors slide shut. Crosby continues smiling to himself as the lift descends another few floors, then he too disembarks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There are a few moments of silence, filled only with quiet elevator music, as the doors slide slowly shut. Sandra turns to Aya. The doors ping closed. They share a look of amused bewilderment and dissolve into tipsy giggles.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"I'm not going mad, right?" Aya says, hiccoughing. "Like, that's the floor for the Flyers?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra nods vigorously, too vigorously if the way the floor moves beneath her is any way to judge. "That's the Flyers. Wow, um. What–" she pauses, struggling to pull some words into a sensible order– "What happened there?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Not a clue," Aya says, steadying herself against the wall as the elevator nears the ground floor. "I'm jealous, though. Wouldn't mind a hot date myself."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>And isn't that a lockdown mood.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>At the end of the day, though, illicit affairs are par for the course at Hotel X. It's the same for all fancy establishments: when a client's paying that kind of money, discretion is as much a part of the pricetag as prime location. Whatever's going on, so long as no one is coming in or out of the hotel, then it's not any of their business. Hell, it probably wouldn't even crack the staff's top five secrets, especially not after that whole thing with the Senator.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Not that that'll stop the gossip mags from trying.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Got another email from TMZ," says Aya midway through a very long Wednesday.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Yeah?" Sandra asks distractedly. One of the Bolts is insisting that the hotel has bedbugs, which is both wildly unlikely and wildly inconvenient.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"They've upped the offer," Aya says. "A grand for a fight."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra snickers. "Damn, I could use that. How much do you think for an all-out line brawl?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Oh, I reckon we could push to three or four."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sadly, on the off-chance that Sandra did feel like breaching her employment confidentiality agreement, their chances of even a small fight seem low. Most of the teams are now halfway through their first real series, and the early high spirits have ebbed into a kind of bull-headed weariness. The players still appear at their desk at all times of the day, but more often now they're limping, favouring an arm, or hiding huge purpling bruises under collars and sleeves.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The upside of battered players who are increasingly less keen to wander the hotel is that Sandra and Aya are called on to do more deliveries. Normally that'd be a pain, but Sandra's world is so small at the moment that even taking the elevator up a few floors has become tragically exciting.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>When the call comes in to deliver a keycard up to the Bruins on floor thirty-three, she and Aya play their normal furious game of rock-paper-scissors. Sandra wins. She usually does. It's because Aya plays scissors at least four times out of every five.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Aya glares at her and hisses, "Cheater."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Sucks to suck," Sandra sing-songs back, grinning sunnily. Then she leaves Aya to handle the large, blond, mostly naked man, who Sandra vaguely recognises as one of the Penguins, heading in their direction.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She takes a meandering path up to the Bruins' floor, relishing her freedom. The different teams are all theoretically on separate schedules, but you wouldn't know that from wandering around; the whole place is buzzing with activity. She passes a few Caps in the cycling room; most of them headed out to the BMO Field a few hours ago, but there are usually some guys who don't fancy the trip. There are two older men, coaches if she had to guess, who join her in the elevator, talking intently as they peer at an iPad. There's a trio of Penguins playing disc golf in the corridors outside their lounge area, forcing Sandra to step smartly over the makeshift hole.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It's all beginning to feel weirdly normal.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>At Room 228, she's greeted by a wave of noise and chaos. Apparently it's playing host to a very rowdy Mario Kart tournament, with about ten Bruins squeezed into the small room, all shouting enthusiastically at the television. God, that's so not allowed.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She raises a judgemental eyebrow at the round-faced man, McAvoy according to his shirt, who jumps up to get the card. He has the courtesy to at least look somewhat abashed at the flagrant rule breaking. Not abashed enough to do anything about it though.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Whatever. It's certainly not Sandra's job to make millionaire athletes do as they're told. She's not paid anywhere near enough for that.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It's when she's meandering back down to the lobby that she spots Giroux and Crosby. And, sure, it's definitely none of her business, but she's also not going to look away. Sue her for being curious.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They're stood together in the weight room, Giroux taking a swig from water bottle while Crosby's sat on something that looks like it's for quads. There's nothing about the scene that's noticeably out of the ordinary. The hotel only has one weight room so it's pretty standard for players on opposing teams to share it in a kind of uneasy harmony.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>What catches Sandra's eye are the compression bandages wrapped conspicuously around Crosby's wrists. Even to her untrained eye, they're clearly medical grade, worn for support rather than comfort. And if Sandra can see the bandages, then Giroux definitely can.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They've had half a dozen stern emails on the vital importance of keeping medical information confidential. She's seen numerous players smooth out their limps and tuck away visible bandages when they run across opposing players. She's been accidentally privy to more yelled reminders in the lobby than she can count about how crucial it is that injuries are kept within the team.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Players are absolutely not supposed to be chilling with the opposition with compression bandages on full display.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra moves on after a few seconds, back down to the lobby where Aya will no doubt be wanting a full rundown of any entertaining anecdotes. Which, wow, their lives are boring.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It sticks in her head, though: Crosby and Giroux, and their dysfunctional show of trust.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The days wear on, and Sandra's pretty sure they're not going to make another week without losing a team. At this rate, they might lose two. The Pens and the Caps are both hemorrhaging games like it's a race to the bottom.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They traipse back from the rink each day bringing with them a frustrated and gloomy air. There definitely aren't anymore wild parties. Even the hotel's other, more triumphant guests, seem less inclined towards more energetic pursuits.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>That's not to say that the "team bonding activities" stop, but there is a noticeable change in direction. Sandra finds herself doing a lot more directing towards board games, DVDs and even the hotel's small library - although that's only once, and the Flyer in question does so with a hilariously guilty expression.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Certain teams definitely have the whole group entertainment thing down better than others. Honestly, sometimes Sandra's flat-out jealous.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A Tampa player, whose nametag labels him Shattenkirk, approaches them asking for twenty sets of pillows and blankets.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Twenty?" Sandra asks, careful to keep her tone pleasantly neutral.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Yeah," says Shattenkirk earnestly. "We wanna do, like, a movie night in the cinema."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They actually go ahead with it too, pushing the cinema seating back against the walls and curling up on the floor with their blankets. Shoddy taste in films aside - a Fast and Furious movie of all things, it looks like a blast, the kind of old-school sleepover that's now illegal for most of the population.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Penguins get ejected for good on the Monday.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They arrive back at the hotel one final time, hollowed out and empty, bringing with them the kind of dead silence that reminds Sandra of a funeral. She swallows and exchanges a look with Aya, who grimaces back at her. Neither of them speaks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The players trickle in through the lobby and take the elevators up to their rooms, speaking rarely and only in hushed tones. There's no laughter, no playful jostling, no loud and affectionate chirps, nothing at all of the normal pattern of bubble life that Sandra's grown accustomed to. It's a loss that really feels like one, like something's been torn out.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Yikes," Aya says into the quiet, as the elevator carries up the last stragglers.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra nods an agreement. "Yeah." She opens her mouth to continue, but there doesn't seem to be anything more to say. Yikes pretty much covers it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Flyers finish their series with a win later that day. They spill into the hotel, shouting and whooping, all giddy excitement and riotous celebrations. Sandra's willing to bet the SkyBar and rooftop pool will be getting some enthusiastic use that evening.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Just watching both teams feels like some bizarre form of emotional whiplash.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra's sympathy is limited, though, because with the ejection comes the long-dreaded changeover, which turns out to be exactly as much of a nightmare as expected.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The Penguins are given twenty-four hours to pack up and hit the road, leaving their floor clear for whichever team will be replacing them. By hotel standards, that's fairly generous. It's just that the Pens have been here for three weeks and are now completely entrenched.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The players spend the day trooping back and forth from their rooms to the lobby with bursting suitcases, making increasingly frantic trips to lost property, and seeming to constantly require help from the front desk - with bills, but also with mixed-up sneakers, with broken carry-cases, with travel plans, with advice on flight times. As soon as one problem is solved two more pop up to take its place. It's just unending.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>By mid-afternoon, Sandra's customer service smile is beginning to twitch slightly and her voice is going hoarse. At the next small slowing of traffic, Aya gives her a pointed look, and Sandra doesn't hesitate. She flees the lobby.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Away from the chaos of the lower levels and the Pens' floor, the rest of the hotel is quiet. The Caps are playing, the Bruins are scheduled for a practice, and if the state of the bar was anything to go by then the Flyers are probably still hungover from their post-victory celebrations. Sandra's certainly not complaining. It allows her to escape up to the breakroom and collapse into a chair without encountering a soul. Her shoulders ache, her cheeks ache, everything aches. Fuck, what a day.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>She gives herself ten minutes to recover. Aya is a sweetheart and extremely competent, but it doesn't seem fair to leave her alone with the hordes for long. Sandra waits for her smile to lose its manic edge and for the coffee-maker to finish up, then she catches a descending elevator.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sadly, this one is not empty. One of the older Penguins - Letang, Sandra thinks, with the memorable hair - is fiddling with his phone. She summons up a pleasant expression and steps in.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>They're joined a floor later by Giroux.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra's expecting the usual inter-team awkwardness, each pretending like the other doesn't exist and like the elevator doors are suddenly fascinating to look at. So she's surprised when Letang sighs and turns to him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Here for Sid?" he asks in French, tone more weary than anything else.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra's careful to keep her face expressionless.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Giroux makes a loose shrugging motion. "Wanted to check in on him."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>"Just—" Letang pauses and shakes his head tiredly. "Just don't be a dick."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Giroux doesn't reply, instead turns back to face the doors. Perhaps he thinks it not worth arguing with a man looking so defeated. Perhaps he thinks the comment's fair. As loud and unsubtle as hockey players usually are, in that moment Sandra can't read him at all.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The seconds tick by until the elevator slows to a halt at the Pens' floor, where Giroux and Letang leave together.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sandra swallows around a dry throat. She's overheard more private conversations than she cares to count, and she's good at shaking off any guilt. It's never comfortable though, not when the emotions are that raw. Then she shakes herself. Aya needs rescuing from a small horde of Penguins. Right now, anything else is extraneous.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>That turns out to be the last Sandra sees of Crosby and Giroux.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>After the bubble ends, she keeps an eye on the NHL. She's not watching the standings or anything - it'll take more than a global pandemic to make her a hockey fan - but she looks out for major news, announcements, or scandals.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>If she's honest, she's looking out for one particular announcement.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It doesn't come.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>From time to time, Sandra wonders at that. Maybe she misread the whole situation. Maybe, with all the many factors against, it just didn't work out.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Mostly, Sandra suspects that what she saw in the hotel, something small and warm and fragile, wasn't something that Crosby and Giroux would have wanted to share. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>90% of my research for this was <a href="https://sequestering.tumblr.com/post/638268795059863552/i-feel-like-someone-must-have-done-one-of-these">compiling bubble anecdotes</a>. if you know any good ones then please let me know</p></blockquote></div></div>
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